Dear Friends,
When I was in college there was a gigantic rock in the center of campus. Every 20th-century war, social upheaval, and local drama probably got painted on it at some point. It had been painted and repainted so many times that it was probably double its original size.
Was there something like this at your alma mater? Tufts University has an old cannon that serves the same purpose. One of our college students recently snapped a photo of it and her mom sent it to me. The Tufts cannon was painted dark blue, with huge white letters: “WELCOME HOME! AM YISRAEL CHAI.”
When I received that photo, I replied that I lacked adequate words to describe how it made me feel. Many of us have had similar emotional responses in recent weeks.
The elation of seeing every living hostage return home is a joy that defies description. It feels as though part of the Jewish soul has been restored. And yet there are so many other feelings—conflicted ones. Psychologists talk about “complex grief.” This moment makes me think there should also be something called “complex joy.” For even as we rejoice, we also grieve: for families who don’t get a reunion, who are still waiting, and for the unanswerable questions: can this really be the end of war? What will come next? How will Israel reckon with the suffering and destruction? How will we?
Then, just as the worry builds, I see something beautiful—those tearful reunions—and my heart explodes with gratitude. A moment later, my brain starts talking to my heart, wondering what healing will look like for those who have survived such horror. Everything has changed for them and their loved ones. A long road lies ahead. And yet—they are home. There is such joy.
In Judaism, joy is a religious precept. The Psalms say: עִ בְ ד וּ אֶת־ה׳ בְּ שִׂ מְ חָ ה, בֹּא וּ לְ פָ נָיו בִּ רְ נָ נָה — serve God with joy, come before God with happy song. There’s even a term for it: שִׂ מְ חָ ה שֶׁ ל מִ צְ וָה — the joy of performing a commandment. Perhaps because of the many dark chapters of our history, joy and humor have always helped us cope.
Hasidic Judaism made joy central. מִ צְ וָה גְּד וֹ לָה לִ הְ י וֹת בְּ שִׂ מְ חָ ה תָּ מִ יד — it is a great commandment to be joyful, always. Rabbi Nachman of Bratslav, the great-grandson of the first great Hasidic teacher called the Ba’al Shem Tov, taught about joy through the metaphor of dance:
Imagine you are in a room full of dancers, but standing on the sidelines because your mood is too dark to let you enter the circle. Finally, someone grabs you by the hand, pulling you in. As you begin to move, you notice your former sadness still standing back there, disapproving. The real task, says Rabbi Nachman, is to make that sadness itself dance, to transform it into joy. (Rabbi Art Green: Judaism’s 10 Best Ideas)
Nachman knew profound torment. He suffered the deaths of most of his children as well as his wife, and likely struggled with depression throughout his life. His teachings on joy are powerful because they are personal. Don’t ignore your sadness, he taught. Chase after it and transform it.
This teaching called to mind a speech that Rachel Goldberg-Polin gave last month. Rachel, mother of slain hostage Hersh Goldberg-Polin, captured the emotional impossibility of the moment:
”We are told there is a season for everything, but now we are being asked to digest all of them at once—winter, spring, summer, fall. A time to weep and a time to laugh, and we have to do both right now. A time to sob, and a time to dance, and we have to do both right now.“
As Rachel describes, the transition from war to whatever comes next is complex, because joy itself is complex. Despite the many questions that remain, we need to let our hearts hope. As the Psalmist writes: “You turn my mourning into dancing; You remove my mourning garments and gird me with joy.”
May th s be our fervent prayer.
Shalom,
Rabbi Moss
